


Tranquil Solution

by TheEarlyKat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grand Cleric Elthina asks Hawke to stay in the Chantry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tranquil Solution

“There you are,” Anders breathes a sigh of relief and the action is not as forced as he first imagined it had to be, his smile softer than he originally planned and he can feel the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that Hawke teases him for. Anders is suddenly in need of the thumb that brushes them away after the light chuckle that follows his lover’s words but he knows not to find it here. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He has and it is what caused the tension deep in his stomach, a knot that is wound tight around the worry already sitting heavy like a stone in his gut for the deed he had to fulfill in the Chantry. 

Garrett’s talk with the Grand Cleric had been both a reminder and a remedy to his unease, an emphasized point when voices rose as words turned sharp when the conversation between the two escalated. Garrett was just as passionate about the Circle’s ineptitude as they were – he’d agreed to this plan without question after all – and his reeling mind had calmed just enough to find what he needed until the talk subsided. Had Hawke run out of things to say? Anders hands worked faster to put the necessary items in place before someone found the lack of an argument dull and wandered off. A second thought stilled his fingers, turning them cold and stiff. Garrett was an apostate and though his status as Champion allowed him some safety in the streets, the Chantry was still a danger. 

But Hawke was still there, under the statue of Andastre now, face twisted into as much a smile as his frustration would allow and Anders’ thankful expression looked out of place between his almost scowl and Elthina’s irate look. Her hard eyes caught his before he could escape. 

“You have a troubled soul, child. May you find peace here.” 

Anders left her with a terse nod, hands wrapping tightly around Hawke’s arm, fingers digging in deep to hide the blue that flashed beneath his fingertips and Hawke covered them with his own, running a thumb gently across his knuckles. Anders let up his grip and reminded himself that peace would come one day.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Grand Cleric?” Hawke asked. Though polite, the words sounded strained behind gritted teeth. 

Her eyebrows knotted together but she nodded, lifting a finger after a moment of thought and curling it in a motion to follow her. “Just one thing if you don’t mind.” She turned without another word and Hawke pressed a chaste kiss to the top of Anders’ head. 

“Don’t wait up, alright? Meet back at the Hanged Man later tonight?”

Anders gave him a small smile in answer, a thin twist of his mouth. He’s grateful for the excuse to leave, grateful that Hawke hasn’t asked him to stay in this place that turns his stomach inside out and his head into a shouting match with Justice. He’s sure that none of his thoughts would be cured by the noise and the company of the tavern, but he nodded nonetheless, for Hawke, before scurrying from the safety of his lover’s side and down the steps to Hightown as fast as his legs could take him without tripping over themselves.

\------------------------------

He never was any good at Wicked Grace. Varric and Isabela were surely stuffing cards somewhere and even Fenris was picking up the game. Two games flew buy in half an hour – the fastest rounds yet – but the rogues usually had more a challenge when Hawke was in. Anders cast another glance at the door and hastily threw a card down, wincing when he noticed what was left of his hand. Varric had the decency to look remorseful before playing his hand and collecting his winnings.

It wasn’t hard to feign illness after that. Anders was pale and shaking, the cider in his stomach threatening to come back up with every risked glance at the tavern entrance. He half expected a Templar to burst through the door with a sword pointed at him, or Hawke to stroll in, a whistle on his lips. The fact that neither did had him digging his fingers into his knees to keep him from outright bolting back to Hightown. 

They both knew going to the Chantry was dangerous. Hawke might not have known exactly how dangerous, but his support had been almost vehement and Anders wasn’t going to say no, ever. With the moon settled comfortably in the dark hours of night, it became even more so. Bandits roamed even in Hightown and Anders’ paranoia wasn’t eased by the reminder of Garrett’s fighting ability. The echo of his hurried steps between buildings didn’t help either, and he cast quick glances over his shoulder at every turn to make sure he wasn’t followed, his hands tingling with an electric spell at the ready. 

Anders had half a mind to take the lift to Darktown. Any rouge raider, no matter their crimes, would end up in his clinic for help after a skirmish and there was a possibility that Hawke would be the one sending them there. He could check, just to see, if anyone could give him information. A soft growl reverberated in the back of his head and his feet continued to guide him up to Hightown. Anders scratched nervously at his cheek, taking the stairs two at a time. It was quicker not to double back, he supposed in the end, and four walls around him would help more than the open, empty streets. His lover could be at the estate, having fallen asleep as soon as he returned to changed and forgotten all about their plans. His exhale left him with a breath of Fade.

\------------------------------

The walls did make him feel better. The solid wood door swung shut to block out the outside air, keeping Anders from any looks, both real and imagined. The brightly colored tapestries and dark, boldly painted walls kept him grounded. No Templars would bare storm the estate of the Champion – if they did, they’d wait until morning. Anders was safe for the time being and when the sun rose, bringing with it another day to brave, Hawke would be there to guide him through it with soft words and softer touches. Hawke would-  
Hawke wasn’t home. The candles were replaced but left unlit and Anders called upon a wisp to light his way through the main foyer and up the stairs. Light spilled across the rug and threw shadows across the wall. He called out for Hawke from the top when he caught his breath.

“Is someone there?”

Anders shuffled forward with a start, hand flying to press against his heart before it could beat out of his chest. “Oh, Maker, love, I thought-”

“Anders?” Anders hesitated outside the library, brows knotting together and the lump of fear in his throat not diminishing with every swallow like he’d thought. The way Garrett had said his name, rough around the vowels as if he didn’t say it with every chance he had. The estate did not feel as warm as it had. “There’s something we have to talk about.”  
He didn’t stray any further than the threshold, but he could only see Hawke’s back resting against the chair by the fireplace. “What happened to Wicked Grace? I’m poorer because of you.” There was a pause and Anders bit his bottom hard. The man never rose, didn’t even turn in the chair to face him and he moved reluctantly towards him.

“I…there’s something we have to talk about.” 

Anders didn’t want to look at him. His teeth worried at his lip and didn’t stop even when copper coated his tongue. The metallic taste was better than the bitter bile rising in the back of his throat. He understood why he hated the way Hawke spoke to him, even and repetitive words. He sounded like Karl. Garrett lifted his eyes to meet him and Anders pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from screaming. The dark brown irises remained dull and glossy even when Anders tugged a hand sharply through his hair, yanking on wayward strands.

“Hawke?” His voice trembled when he finally found the air to speak, but not nearly as so as the fingers that rested a breath away from his lover’s forehead, fear making his blood run cold and rage turning his veins blue. Hawke blinked, lashes lowering over glazed eyes that watched him with distant interest. “Garrett, love,” he repeated, barely above a whisper. His expression never changed and Anders dropped his arm back to his side, no strength left in the limb to keep it up – as if he even had the courage to touch the bright red scar pressed deep into the skin between Garret’s brows. He couldn’t look away. 

He could fix this. He had to fix this. This was his fault. Elthina – the Chantry…Nothing could come close to the pain wedged deep in his heart, not the guilt, not even the agony of Karl’s memory as he dug it up, remembering – yes – that one moment where his eyes focused, intense, emotion flooding his features when Justice cried out in an anger Anders could never give voice to. Trickles of blue turned into a flood and cracks ripped open across his skin as Anders willingly submitted to the darkness of his mind, only an ech of Justice’s roar reaching him, a verbal accompaniment to the blinding flash of color the spirit brought with him. 

Red colored their vision, the same color as the brand on Hawke’s skin, as the blood he demanded be spilled in payment for this injustice. The spirit roared again, unable to put their thoughts in coherent words. Never again would they hear Garret’s laugh, loud and infectious over drinks or low and deep in the darkness of the bedroom, see his soft smile curl into a fierce grin at the prospect of a fight, or feel warm arms wrapped around them late at night. Justice closed the distance Anders was too terrified to, and pressed a finger to the sunburst. “I will not permit this. You would help us see the Chantry burn. You gave us your word.” Justice stared hard into Hawke’s eyes and something in the man looked back. Justice wished Anders could see it.

“Speak,” Justice demanded, and Hawke’s lower lip trembled. The spirit raised the once lowered arm to caress his jaw with more gentleness than he thought possible of himself. “Tell me who has dared to do this and I will tear them to pieces.” Like he’d done for Karl – like he’d do for every mage ever put under the brand. The silence his anger rendered from Anders disquieted him. 

Garrett gave him a small smile. “I don’t usually start breaking hearts until the first date.” 

Justice’s hand stilled, his normally neutral tone gone soft. “Do not joke.” But it was what Hawke did when faced with stresses, and beyond the tiny spark of amusement, the skin around Garrett’s eyes was turning red in the effort of hold back tears he would not let fall – could not let fall. Justice wanted to reassure him, to tell him that Anders could not see them as far away in the back of his head he possibly could be, curled up as small as possible. Justice did not think that bring any comfort. 

“Sorry, love.”

“I am sorry. I am…we should have done more – at the Chantry. More than just-“

“What did you do?” Garrett motioned to the sunburst embedded in his skin around the hand still holding his jaw tight. “What did you do that they wanted to do this?”

“Not enough,” Justice growled. He felt a pull at his words and knew that Anders agreed. “We did not do nearly enough.” He dropped his hand from Hawke’s forehead and wasn’t surprised when the light faded out of their skin. Anders turned his eyes to the ground, unable to watch everything that was Garrett fade from his eyes as easily as the blue of Justice’s essence. “I’ll do more this time,” he promised himself – Justice and Hawke both. There had to be a reason the Tranquil broke free of their forced cages when a spirit was present. He would figure it out – and he would save Garrett.


End file.
